


Flares

by JJJunky



Category: Twelve O'Clock High (1964)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gallagher's life is in danger and it's not from the Germans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flares

Flares  
By JJJunky

 

A German ME109, flashed by the cockpit its guns blazing in a final attempt to shoot down the lead B-17. The _Lily_ shuddered as the 20mm shells racked a path along her left wing. Colonel Joseph Gallagher checked his instruments for damage. His relief at finding everything running within acceptable parameters was momentary, for the disappearance of the fighters corresponded with the advent of flak. Small black clouds of deadly mortar filled the gray sky, but the bombs exploded far below the formations' altitude. 

Resolutely staying to his designated course, Gallagher knew it was a short reprieve. The gunners would be adjusting their guns to find the range. An explosion, so close to the nose it violently shook the bomber, validated Gallagher's expectations.

A second blast shattered the window near his left shoulder. Shrapnel bit into his arm, drawing a moan of pain. Blood pumped from the ragged cut running from his wrist to his elbow. The warm liquid sluggishly dripping from his fingers was the first feeling of warmth he'd experienced since leaving Archbury. It was ironic such comfort should come from something he couldn't afford to lose.

"Komansky . . ."

Above the howl of the roaring wind, Gallagher heard his co-pilot call for help.

". . . get down here, the Skipper's been hit."

Legs dangled from the top turret as the engineer hurried to comply with the order. Moving carefully in the cramped quarters, Komansky inspected the wound. "For once, this cold air has come in handy."

Wincing when a finger pressed the end of the long cut, an aghast Gallagher regarded the non-com. "When did you become a fan of cold weather?"

"When you got hit, sir." With his free hand, Komansky reached for the medical kit. "Any warmer and you might have bled to death before I got here. That shrapnel cut an artery."

Suddenly noticing blood had saturated his and Komansky's uniforms, Gallagher felt light-headed. The bomber shook as flak continued to pommel the aircraft. The movement made his stomach heave. Fighting the nausea, his eyelids fluttered over eyes tired beyond his control. Determined to remain conscious, he gritted his teeth. He wasn't worried about himself, but about the nine men in this airplane, and the hundred and twenty men in the B-17's following his own who depended on him to do his job.

Though he fought the darkness nipping at the edge of his vision, even his strong will couldn't win this battle over an enervated body. His head lolled forward, landing on a soft, furry cushion. 

"It's all right, Colonel."

Komansky's voice spoke softly in his ear.

"We'll bring everyone home."

****

She shuddered as she brushed a bug off her neck. The bush was full of tiny little creatures who liked to crawl on her soft flesh. She contemplated moving to a new location when another bug landed on her cheek. Barely suppressing a scream, she slapped it away. Concerned that she might have revealed her presence, she glanced at the MP in the guard hut. To her relief, his attention was focused on the returning bombers.

Following his gaze, she saw a red flare explode high above one of the airplanes. She wondered why, even as she noticed another flare, burst from another aircraft. A frown furrowed her brow. She would have to ask someone when she got back to town if the signal had any significance.

The roar of the mighty engines filled the air, drowning any other sound. Realizing it would mask any noise she might make, she picked up her bike and pushed it to a stand of trees further down the road. The distance didn't worry her. This was the only road from the airfield to the village of Archbury. When Colonel Gallagher finally left the base, he would have to pass right by her.

She would be ready.

****

Major Harvey Stovall nervously waited at the _Lily_ 's hardstand. The red flare dropping slowly to the ground told him someone on the crew had been injured. It just couldn't tell him who that someone was. Sometimes it was harder being left behind than it was flying the mission, despite the bone aching cold, attacking fighters and the flak. These were tangible dangers; something to fear, but something you could prepare yourself for. The death of a friend was much harder to accept. Harvey had lost so many friends, so many men he'd admired in the war already, it should have gotten easier. It hadn't.

Propeller wash pushed him to the edge of the hardstand. He put his hand up to keep his hat from blowing away. When the huge bomber turned, he saw the shattered window at the pilot's position. Though he tried to remain optimistic, his heart raced. He couldn't take the loss of another commanding officer, another friend.

Blocks were thrown under the huge wheels of the B-17 as it stopped its forward motion. The cockpit hatch swung down, followed immediately by the flight engineer.

"The skipper's been hit," Komansky shouted, reaching up to help his superior from the plane.

Moving quickly, Harvey was still steps behind Dr. Kaiser as they hurried to assist the sergeant.

"It's just a scratch," Gallagher weakly grumbled, his injured arm held close to his chest.

Wrapping Gallagher's other arm over his shoulder, Komansky practically carried the wounded man to the waiting ambulance. "Some scratch," the sergeant sardonically noted.

"I'm the doctor here," Kaiser calmly observed, inspecting the bloody bandage. "Why don't we leave the diagnosis to me?"

Relief at seeing Gallagher walking and talking made Harvey feel light-headed. They'd made it through another mission, another day, damaged but not destroyed. In this war, that was a major accomplishment to be appreciated and celebrated. If only in one's heart and mind.

****

The last rays of the sun streaked across the sky. She sighed, realizing another long vigil had been for nothing. She would have to return to Archbury. It wasn't safe to be out at night. There were no lights glowing through the darkness to help guide her. Unfamiliar with the buildings or streets, she even found the village difficult to navigate. So she had made it her policy to return before the last light faded from the sky.

She'd learned her lesson her first evening in the country. She'd gone down the wrong lane and ended up at a farmhouse. They'd graciously used some of their precious petrol to drive her to her hotel. However, the incident had brought her unwanted notoriety. So much, in fact, she feared it would destroy her plan. To her relief, she'd learned the commanding officer of the 918th Bomb Group, rarely appeared in town.

Her first week in England, she'd tried to gain access to Gallagher's office. When that failed, she'd resorted to hiding in the bushes, waiting for him to leave the base. Since she'd started her surveillance, he hadn't driven past once. A lesser person would've been discouraged and aborted the mission. She was made of sterner stuff.

Walking her bike until she was out of sight of the guard booth, she gave the now quiet airfield one last glance. She would be back tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. Her heart ached too much to be so easily discouraged.

****

Gallagher sighed in exasperation as the report he was trying to sign slid out from under his hand. He knew he should be grateful it was his left arm that was in a sling rather than his right. But the immobile limb still made it difficult to do his work. The world as he knew it would end if he didn't dot every "i" and cross every "t."

Dropping his pen, he reached for the cigarette burning in the ashtray in front of him. This was another inconvenience he could do without. He could smoke or he could write, he couldn't do both at the same time as he usually did. The leisure of smoking a cigarette was the only enjoyment associated with doing paperwork. Taking a long draw, he savored the taste before replacing it in the ashtray. Sighing wearily, he retrieved his pen.

A knock on the door was greeted with both relief and frustration. "Come in."

The long raincoat he wore swishing as he walked, Harvey entered the large office. Crossing to the desk, he switched off the lamp and took the pen from Gallagher's hand.

"Hey," Gallagher protested.

"Doc Kaiser said you were to take it easy," Harvey defended his action. "This is not what I would call relaxing."

"Kaiser doesn't have to worry about putting bombers in the air or filling them with a crew."

"Neither do you, not right this minute anyway. We just got a call from the thunder and lightning brigade. Britain and Europe are going to be socked in for at least two days."

Leaning back in his chair, Gallagher's shoulders visibly slumped. "I never thought I would be glad to get a bad weather report."

"Which means," Stovall waved a hand over the stack of files, "this can wait until tomorrow. You're taking the night off."

"A night off? I can't remember the last time I had a night off." The excitement in Gallagher's eyes faded as his gaze rested on the work in front of him. "Nice idea, Harvey, but I better wait a little longer to indulge myself. Britt will have my head if I don't get these requisitions filled out."

"General Britt is in London and will be there for the next three days. What he doesn't know won't hurt you."

"I suppose a few hours wouldn't put me too far behind," Gallagher whispered longingly.

Taking the younger man's raincoat from its hook, Harvey held it invitingly at the shoulders. "Not far at all," he agreed.

"So what are we going to do?" Gallagher asked, putting his right arm into the proffered sleeve and allowing Stovall to drape the coat across his left shoulder.

"I've made reservations at the Shepherd and Dog."

"Dinner? With real meat?"

"And real vegetables."

Putting his hat on his head, Gallagher shook his head. "My stomach will think it died and went to heaven."

****

When she saw the Army jeep parked in front of the Shepherd and Dog, she had to fight to contain her excitement. The presence of the car didn't necessarily mean its passenger was Gallagher. Yet, after all she'd suffered, she deserved a break. Gallagher's presence here tonight was the answer to prayers she had thought to be falling on deaf ears.

Though she'd already eaten, she entered the pub and made her way to an empty chair at the bar. Ordering a Baby Sham, she allowed her gaze to drift around the room until it fell on the table Gallagher shared with an older man. She felt no remorse when she saw the colonel's arm was in a sling. Never taking her eyes from the man she had sought for so long, she sipped her drink. The sweet-tasting wine soured in her mouth when the older man leaned over to cut Gallagher's meat. Her hand tightened around her purse as Gallagher grinned and shook his head.

"You'll make a great mother, Harvey." Gallagher's words were muffled by the loud crowd.

The persistent voice that had led her on this long journey, warned her to be cautious. Taking another swallow of her drink to dampen the fire burning inside her, she put some coins on the bar and rose. She had waited this long. She could wait a little longer. Her prey would not escape her.

****

The cigarette smoke filling the air and the loud click of glasses was a welcome change from the smell of cordite and the rattle of machine guns. Harvey mentally patted himself on the back as he watched the tension visibly evaporate from his companion's shoulders.

Sometimes, Harvey wanted to rant at Britt and Pritchard, remind them of how young Gallagher was to shoulder the responsibility that had been thrust upon him. But there was no one to replace the colonel in intelligence or ability.

Not for the first time, Harvey acknowledged this was a young man's war. Except they weren't men, they were boys being asked to do a man's job. Sadness stole Harvey's joy as he reflected on all the young lives that had been lost. All that would be lost in the days, weeks, possibly years ahead.

"What's the matter, Harvey?"

Wondering how one so young could be so perceptive, Harvey took a long swallow from his ale before answering. "What makes you think there's something wrong, Joe?"

"The droop in your shoulders and the sorrow in your eyes. I've seen it often enough in the mirror to recognize it."

"It," Harvey silently interpreted, was a breaking heart. How many cracks could the organ sustain before it stopped beating? Could a man go on living without a heart? "Just thinking about Connors," he partially lied, mentioning the gunner who had died on the morning's mission.

"I never got a chance to meet him." Gallagher's finger traced a pattern in the condensation covering his glass of ale. "What was he like?"

A smile curved Harvey's lips. "He was a real live cowboy. Said he'd never been higher than the back of a horse before he joined the Army."

"When I was a kid, I wanted to be a cowboy," Gallagher softly revealed.

"You and every other boy."

Gallagher empty his mug. "I guess it's time we got back to the base."

A protest died before it passed Harvey's lips. His mood had spoiled the evening for both of them. He wished he could turn back the clock. This time, he would fight the depression that had swept over him. But it was too late to regain the peaceful world they had so briefly inhabited.

Rising, Harvey shrugged into his coat, before assisting Gallagher. Mentally chastising himself, he opened a path through the crowded pub. His attempt to guard Gallagher's mental state had failed miserably. The least he could do was protect his physical body from further harm.

Fog so heavy he couldn't see the opposite side of the street, greeted him as he exited the pub. Harvey shivered as the wet, cold cocoon wrapped around him.

"Looks like those weather boys called this one right for a change," Gallagher noted, walking towards the spot where they'd left the car.

"Hold it right there."

Disturbed by the menacing tone he heard in the soft voice, Harvey drew up beside Gallagher before complying with the order.

The dark shadow in the shape of a woman, moved slowly through the gray blanket. Discordant footsteps echoed on the cobblestone pavement. Judging from the accent, Harvey decided she was American, probably from New England.

"Is there something we can do for you?" Gallagher impatiently demanded.

"You can die."

Features that had been blurred by the enveloping mist became discernable -- including the gun she held in her right hand.

A gasp caught in Harvey's throat as he was confronted by this new danger. Going into combat, you prepared yourself mentally as well as physically. This was a threat he had not expected, so was unprepared to control. 

"If this is a joke," Gallagher blustered, "it isn't very funny."

"Do you think murdering boys is a joke?" Her words were cool and clear as ice water.

"Of course I don't."

"Yet, I saw you in there." Her unencumbered hand indicated the shadowy shape of the pub behind them. "You were laughing."

"I don't . . ."

"You murdered my son."

Harvey heard exhaustion as well as pain in the raspy voice. With her attention on Gallagher, he decided to take a chance and stepped closer to her.

Backing away, she trained the gun on him. "Hold it right there; I don't want to hurt you."

"But you do want to hurt me?" Gallagher clarified.

The glower on the younger man's face was as easy to read as a book. Obeying the silent order, Harvey reluctantly backed away, though he stayed prepared, ready to throw himself in front of a bullet if he had to. He wasn't being heroic. More lives depended on Gallagher's intellect and skills than on his own.

"As you have hurt me." A muscle quivered in her jaw.

Compassion audible in his voice, Gallagher asked, "How did I hurt you?"

"I told you," she screamed, waving the gun at him. "You killed my son."

Pain flashed across Gallagher's face, provoking Harvey. 

"Who was your son?"

"John Shelton." A long silence greeted her revelation. "You don't remember him, do you?"

"No," Gallagher admitted.

A trembling hand wrapped around the one holding the gun. "I'm doing this not only for my son, but for all the boys you've murdered, for all the mothers who are left to grieve. To you, he was just a navigator. He was my life."

"Wait," Harvey desperately pleaded, holding his hands up to show they were empty. "I remember John. He was a bright boy, came from New York."

"That's right." A watery smile curved her pale lips. "He was going to be a lawyer like his daddy."

Calling on his civilian skills that had grown rusty in his present position, Harvey revealed, "I'm a lawyer. If your son wanted to be one, he must have revered the law. Would he condone murder?"

"That's why I'm doing this." She shook the gun at Gallagher.

"Murdering Colonel Gallagher?"

"This isn't murder. It's justice. He killed my son."

"So you believe in an eye for an eye?"

"Yes." Confusion played across her tired features. "No."

"You can't have it both ways. Changing tactics before she could organize her thoughts, Harvey asked, "How did Colonel Gallagher kill John?"

Tears glistened on the thin face. "He sent him on a mission and the plane was shot down."

"By the Germans?"

"Yes."

"Then the Germans killed your son, not Colonel Gallagher."

"He," the muzzle of the gun clearly indicated who "he" was, "forced John to go on that mission."

"If you asked John, I'm sure he would say he was doing his duty. No one forced him."

"I can't ask him now can I?" The woman sneered.

Despite her tone, Harvey heard the doubt. Pressing his advantage, he gently explained, "John had already flown seventeen missions. The life expectancy of a B-17 crew is fifteen. He was luckier than most."

"Yeah, real lucky."

"What I'm saying, Mrs. Shelton, is we're at war…"

"I hadn't noticed." Sarcasm dripped from her voice like honey from a table.

"Men--"

"Boys," she corrected.

"No, ma'am," Harvey emphasized, "they deserve to be called men. They're willing to die for an ideal."

"Nothing was worth my son's life."

"We talked a few times over a glass of beer." Harvey's eyes looked into the dense fog, replaying a scene he'd had with many of the young men before they went off to battle. "I don't think he would agree with you. He seemed to think freedom was pretty important."

"Is that what he told you?"

"He did. But he didn't have to. If you look you can see it on every pilot, co-pilot, bombardier, navigator, and gunner's face."

"Well, it isn't important to me. All I cared about was my son."

"That's obvious." Harvey's tone hardened with disgust. "Killing Colonel Gallagher won't bring John back. You'll only be making his death meaningless. Is this really what John would want you to do?"

The arms holding the gun slowly lowered. When it was safely pointing at the ground, Harvey reached over and snatched it from a limp hand.

"Now what?" Her voice was quiet, disinterested.

"Now," Harvey said, taking her arm, "I turn you over to the authorities so they can get you the help you need."

"Too bad they can't help me."

Gallagher spoke so softly, Harvey barely heard the plea. His initial elation dissipated. He'd battled the devil for one soul tonight. It looked like his work was far from finished.

****

Gallagher stared at the report sitting on the desk in front of him. Instead of words and figures, he saw faces. Faces of men he couldn't give names to. She was right. He was a murderer. He'd become so obsessed with winning this war he'd forgotten the men who were dying to it possible. When had he allowed them to become objects instead of living, breathing human beings with dreams for a future they would never see? 

"She was wrong, Joe."

Surprised, Gallagher looked up to see Harvey Stovall standing in front of his desk. Wondering when his ground exec had become clairvoyant, Gallagher shook his head. "I'm not so sure."

"I am."

"Don't be." Stabbing his pen at the paper in front of him, Gallagher asked, "Do you know what this is?"

Harvey tilted his head, trying to read upside down. "A requisition?"

"For additional gunners," Gallagher clarified, feeling the meal he'd recently consumed turn in his stomach. "More lambs to the slaughter."

"They all know what their job is."

"No," Gallagher sharply contradicted, "they don't. They think it's going to be glamorous. Each one believes he's going to be a hero. That their participation will win this war."

"And they would be right." Harvey slowly sat in the chair in front of the desk, feeling every one of his forty-five years. "They won't all win medals. But they'll all make a contribution to winning this war. Don't deny them the opportunity."

Dropping his head to hide the resignation drowning his eyes, Gallagher hissed, "The opportunity to die?"

"Joe," Harvey studied his hands, "you've flown more missions than anyone on this base. Far more than the requisite twenty-five. Why do you keep flying?"

"Because we have to win this win," Gallagher instantly replied, lifting his head.

"Do you consider yourself better than everyone else?"

"Of course not."

"They why are you allowed to risk your life for your country, but no one else is?"

The shadow of a smile broke through Gallagher's mask of despair. "Damn, you're good."

"No one fights this war hoping to die, Joe," Harvey reminded him. "But no one wants to live in a world ruled by that demented corporal. Unfortunately, some of them will be sacrificed. We just have to make sure their gift has meaning."

Gallagher's smile turned cynical. "You're dreaming, Harvey."

"That's one reason we're fighting this war, so I can."

His fingers fiddling with his pen, Gallagher whispered, "Can I join you in your dream?"

"The more who do, the better our chances it will come true."


End file.
